Thirty-something?

Was driving somewhere with my daughter, now nineteen. We were talking about the changes wrought by aging, with more of a focus on her time of life than mine. At some point, I commented that although I knew I'm sixty-two, I really feel like I'm still thirty. "Really," she dubiously asked?

Yes. Okay, I know I'm not, and there are certainly plenty of signs that I'm not - my eyesight grows steadily worse, my joints aren't as resilient as they used to be, I take longer to heal, there are creases where there used to be smooth skin, my bright red hair has faded to dull brown where it hasn't blanched to pure white ... and the list goes on.

But deep down inside, in my conception of who I am, I'm still in my thirties. I still do pretty much anything I want to, whether it's going for a 100 mile hike deep inside the Grand Canyon (see photos and commentary) or biking to work or swinging an axe. And my mind still feels the same way it always has (though perhaps I delude myself). An attractive woman still catches my eye. Most important, perhaps, I look at the future in terms of opportunities and plans, far more than in terms of restraints or memories or regrets.

I realize that in eight years I'll be seventy, that in the time it takes a newborn to be able to vote, I'll be eighty. And I look at my father - a remarkably vital and active ninety - and wonder how he sees himself? Is he still the handsome, dashing Army Air Corps pilot I never knew. Or is he the bowed, increasingly frail, easily fatigued old man with a deteriorating memory that I reluctantly see?

This aging process isn't what I thought it would be. Mostly, I happily add, it's better. Enough so, that I sometimes wonder if it's even occurring.

Until my daughter says "Really?"